I try not to abuse the privilege of a horn.

I like to think I’m a good guy.

I know I’m not, but still…it’s nice to pretend.  Heck, every now and then I even convince myself. I do try and go through the motions, you know, on a fairly regular basis: being nice, opening doors for the elderly, picking up the random piece of stray litter, speaking when spoken to, lending a dollar on occasion, offering gum…you get the picture.

I try and do these things with some consistency.

However, there is a very real part of my Daily Routine in which I flat-out, no-holds-barred hate people.

And that part is driving.

I absolutely hate all people when I’m driving.

Because it seems to me that all the aggression you were unable to get out during your Leftover Stress From the Day Before, or your morning coffee, or the approaching work day, from the shut-downs during meetings, and scolding glances from threateningly close deadlines, all the My-Boss-Is-A-Completely-Splintered-Dipstick attitude that you’ve been harboring since yesterday, etc., comes out when you get behind the wheel of your car.

It is on America’s highways that we “take back our day,” and avenge our bruised egos.

And, I hate you for it.

Just as much as I hate myself, for it, too. Because that’s exactly what I do.

We all adhere to an unwritten, unofficial-though-abided-by-as-if-Holy-Law rule about driving in America:  All roads lead to me.

The highway is the one place where we feel the most entitled and self-important.

I think it has to do with proximity.

The closer the space around us, the more we believe we control it, solely. And if the space around is something we out-right own, then the more power we give ourselves in its control.

I own my car. I know it like the back of my hand. It belongs to me. I am its master. In my office, this is not quite the case. I don’t technically own my office. It’s college letterhead, and a loaned computer; it’s the school’s telephone and the office keys, too…they belong to Maintenance. Not me.

I’ve simply entered into a contract at work that states, basically, “in exchange for my intellectual properties and skills-based abilities, I will sit in this room and use your facilities.” So, I am not, in other words, in as complete control of situations that arise here.

In my car, though, I am. So are you.

And somehow, by extension, we stretch that authority to include all stop signs, 4-way stops, traffic lights, off ramps, exits, and turn lanes.

Driving, then, becomes something related to therapy, where we go “to work out our problems, and to think out loud.” And why not? It’s a quiet activity. Lots of alone time, all of which makes it a very dangerous form of therapy, but still…we religiously attend the sessions.  So there’s that, if nothing else.

I wasn’t always like this. A car used to be just a car, a means to an end. I didn’t think of the wheels as a form of defense; I didn’t consider gas a precious commodity not to be wasted, and I thought of a horn the same way I did curry, as a spice used sparingly, if ever.

It wasn’t until I was in New York, the first time, that I really began to understand what real driving involved. From the defensive axles of all four wheels, to the real purpose of a horn.

And, oh, how sweet the realization was. Especially where the horn is concerned.

Now, I’m sure there are cities, even in the south, where people use their horns all the time, but it wasn’t anything I was used to growing up. If you honked a horn, in my small town, it meant one of two things, usually: 1) either there were dogs in the road, and sometimes either chickens or guineas, or 2) you were my Uncle Pat and had installed a horn that played “Dixie” when you pushed it.

I hate to make this next correlation, but it’s true—I didn’t begin to consider the horn as a weapon until after I’d moved away. I suppose I was (am) naïve about these things. We just don’t require the same survival tactics down south.  There’s a wide learning curve for southerners who travel frequently.

I mean, heck, I’m the guy who couldn’t even get into a cab, in Manhattan, the right way.

Which, by the way, means getting into the cab from the passenger’s side of the car, always, not crossing into oncoming traffic, even though you were just trying to be a gentleman and offering the closer side of the cab to the lady also on the sidewalk.

This is one of the many colorful ways you can get yourself killed while in the Big Apple. That, and staying at the Hotel Chelsea. Most of the other ways aren’t really all that colorful, unless they involve a gay bar.

I’ve learned from this mistake, though, with the exception of almost getting run over by the Link Train in Tacoma, Washington.

Had it not been for the arm of a quick-reflexed friend, I might have left a piece of me there on the street, two blocks away from the site of where the tradition of the Pledge of Our American Flag originated.

I suppose, if you take into account all my near-misses on streets and byways when traveling to Big Cities, it should stand to reason that I’m a little bitter and hard-nosed nowadays, when I’m on the road…and why I’m no longer afraid to use my horn.

Because it’s empowering.

It doesn’t even matter if you have a real reason to use the horn; when you push it, people pay attention. They go on immediate alert the second after they apologize to themselves in the car, as if you could hear them.

That’s what I do, anyway.  

I hear a horn, and I assume I’ve done something wrong, and I immediately file through the few minutes beforehand to see what it is I must have done to be scolded by a horn.

I try not to abuse the privilege of a horn.

But, I fail miserably, at it. Sometimes, it’s all I have to make the day better. I will dogs to run into the highway, I take especial delight in watching for even the slightest, tiniest swerve from a trucker, I wait to ambush the fool who thinks the Yield sign is meant for everyone else.

I’m a scavenger of honking opportunities: I’ve honked for whales, peace, cowboys, Jesus, Israel, and clowns. I’ve honked at school buses full of hollering children, old ladies taking up both lanes, speeding idiots who delight in rolling stops, and people on lawnmowers. I’ve honked for no reason other than the sun was out, I had the day off, or my favorite song came on the radio. I’ve been known to honk at cows just to make them look up at me, and when driving by the nursing home, if any of the infirm are sitting on the front porch.

They love having someone to wave at.

I don’t take the horn lightly. When I get my moment: I honk the ever-loving spit out of it. No matter what the reason.

Today’s reason, though, is a no-brainer: It’s my birthday.

So, get ready for the drive home, Mississippi. I even brought my gloves, just in case my palms get chapped.

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